


~Sweet Erotic Angel Baby~

by RodeoQueen



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Dominant! S/O, F/M, Gender-Neutral! S/O, Inspired By A Song (Italo Disco By Last Dinosaurs), M/M, Penetrative Sex, Romeo and Juliet Reference, Softcore Erotica, V Is A Bit Of A Pillow Princess, submissive!V
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:00:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29321304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RodeoQueen/pseuds/RodeoQueen
Summary: There is vitality in vulnerability. Even in your soft kisses, there is something with a bite that he craves to feel.
Relationships: V (Devil May Cry) & Reader, V (Devil May Cry)/Original Character(s), V (Devil May Cry)/Original Female Character(s), V (Devil May Cry)/Original Male Character(s), V (Devil May Cry)/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 25





	~Sweet Erotic Angel Baby~

He crawls to you on the sheets, inky swirls against the twisting silks, as nude as he was the day he became his own. 

Half of a man seeking to be whole within you, between your legs. 

Looking upon you with clouded eyes, your hand loses itself in his locks as you pull him in for a kiss. 

The dark poet lays upon the blankets, Adam’s apple bobbing as you lick and tease and caress him. 

His head lolls as he breaths your name, practically mist to the languid tension. Cheek against his shoulder, his neck hits the pillow. 

“Oh, oh darling~” He sings, breaths coming faster to the genuflects of your head, a halo of hair swishing to your ministrations. 

Your mouth that indulges upon his seed and length leaves him and he shivers at the sight of spittle dripping down his c*ck. 

His stomach is in knots, a tight wounded ball of needed release, and you jerk him cruelly. 

“Hah-ah! Ngh~” 

V can never stop returning your controlling, hungering, prowling gaze. Helplessly beneath you, he nearly backs away from this dominating wave of need. 

His leg is shifted to your shoulder, and strong fingers clench his thigh. He is rooted to you and he drinks in the rays of the sun coming in from the window. V gulps. You want him here, and you want him to fall apart.

And so he does, a low groan and a whine with spurts of himself being smeared upon his manhood. The light shines in his eyes, and sparks fly against his long eyelashes. It’s too much, you’re too much, he’s overwhelmed. 

He’s between your snared teeth, and he begs you to bite down and entrench him. To let him shudder in mindless lust and feed his greed for more. 

Your words echo through his f*cked-out temple, teasing him, asking him questions you already know the answer to. 

_Do you want me? Can you handle it, V? Are you going to give me what I want? Will you be good for me?_

_Yes._

Green eyes tilt to watch you rise and place a hand upon his chest, the other’s fingers prodding his swollen lips. He groans lowly, taking your fingers into his mouth. 

It is selfish, to harden at the taste of your own lust, and yet V makes himself a whore of a miser. When his essence returns to him upon his tongue, you pat his cheek with a churring chuckle at his obedience. Slickened fingers prepare yourself to be penetrated by him. 

Why must you stare through his soul as you pleasure yourself? Don’t you know he can’t breathe, awaiting his reward? Poets cannot write these moments down and they drive themselves mad to recreate such scenic potential with ink and paper. 

He grits his teeth, thoughts of written words wilting to the jolts of awaited pleasure, your opening breached. 

“Please-” The plea is not heard when you sink to the hilt. You moan at the feeling of your walls being stretched, eyes narrowing to a close. 

Ever the cautious lover, he strokes comforting circles upon your hips that grind down. The canopy bed’s curtains behind your back make you resemble a divine and winged messenger. As you fly from his ruin, he will delight in watching.

Does he know? Does he know how ruined he looks, hair tousled, and soul picked apart like a pomegranate? 

Peach-colored lips stretched to cry out your name, eyes rolling to the back of his head, body moving against your punishing pace, the mysterious poet is perceived in his midday fornication. 

He’s unashamed, hips bucking against yours desperately. He wants to please his Little Wanderer more than anything. 

His lover, who rides him with the pads of his fingers pressed against sculpted skin. 

You’re so close to him, skin against skin and mouths moaning and colliding. 

V has known pleasure, from himself and fleeting crimson memories, but this-

This is religion. 

The waves of mind-numbing pleasure drown him, and you become enraptured in your orgasm. 

Body supine, warmth coursing through his veins, he fervently allows himself to partake of divinity. You’re so tight and willing around him and with each stroke to where you keen, you only embrace him more. 

V falls to a higher nirvana, slim waist cushioned by your inner thighs. Collapsed on the bed, he expends himself and you take it all. Comforting coos and loving touches surround him. 

Your poet has sung his rhapsody and gratefully kisses you again, lean arms wrapped around you. 

The brunch with slips of alcohol and fruit has clearly spiraled, and you lazily stretch like an amused creature of lust. V sighs in contentment at the idea of waking up and going back to bed with you. 

The two of you are floating in your little cloud, your bedroom an escape from the universe and its web of intertwined affairs. Above the small crowd of people, hustling about their day, two pairs of eyes once clenched in euphoria relax to slumber. 

Somewhere in Verona, two lovers fall over and over to la petite mort and become reborn in the silken afterglow. 

**Author's Note:**

> _"La petite mort" in French means "the little death" and is used to refer to orgasms._


End file.
